


After the Crash

by celie33



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Case Fic, F/M, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Happy Ending, I promise, M/M, Mycroft Feels, brief mention of a dead child and a baby that is endangered for most of the story, the ones with kids are the hardest, though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:33:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celie33/pseuds/celie33
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock and Mycroft are visited by an old friend, John saves said friend's life, and Mycroft is shown to have a heart. Includes murder, intrigue, and a baby. As all stories should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Visitor

Chapter 1 

Sherlock is sitting at his microscope pouring over samples from an experiment involving the collection of fingerprint evidence from the bodies of children. He is quiet, but not in his normal manner. He had solved the case, but it had taken a toll on him. It had all but wrecked John. They were both trying to get back to normal, but the mood in the flat was somber. Cases involving children were always more difficult to deal with. 

John had just finished the reading the newspaper. He leans forward in his armchair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him, not sure what he should do to fill up the hours. He needs a distraction. He makes up his mind to go to the shops and find something to make for dinner when the doorbell sounds. Sherlock doesn’t pause at his work. 

“John. Door.”

“You could go and answer it, Sherlock.” But he is already out the door and down the stairs. Sherlock raises his head as he listens to John and their visitor coming up the stairs. There is something familiar about the sound of the woman’s voice as she laughs. Her gait is familiar, too, though her step is heavier than it once had been. He pops up from the table and is waiting for them at the door. 

“Sherlock, an old friend of yours has come to visit.”

Sherlock looks behind his flatmate at the woman coming up the last few stairs. Sherlock steps aside so John can pass, then waits for her to raise her head and meet his gaze. 

“Katherine.” It is almost a whisper. A small smile plays at the corner of his lips. 

“You have exactly 30 seconds to look, and I’ll ask you to keep your deductions to yourself for the time being.”

Katherine looks up at her old friend and smiles. It is a tired, sad smile, but he can tell that she is trying to keep the sadness at bay. She isn’t trying to hide it from him - she knows that would be near impossible. She is trying to hide it from herself, at least for a while longer. He takes a long look at how she has changed in the last twenty years. She has aged well. She’s put on weight, but it actually suits her. 

“Should I?”

“Please.” She steps past him, into the lounge, and Sherlock silently pulls his mobile from his pocket and sends a short text. She stands there, taking in the surroundings. 

“Can I take your coat?” 

Katherine turns to look at John, smiling. “I’ve actually got a bit of a chill. I’d forgotten how cold London can be sometimes. I’ll hold on to it for now, thank you.“

“Then perhaps you’d like a cup of tea or coffee, something hot to warm you up?” 

“A cup of tea would be lovely. I haven’t had one in years.”

“She takes hers the same way I do, John.”

“I actually think the last proper cup of tea I drank was one that your mother made for me, Sherlock.”

“Well, then, it has been a long time.”

“Quite.”

Katherine takes a seat in John’s armchair, pulling her coat close around her. Sherlock takes a seat opposite, and the two enjoy a companionable silence while waiting for John to return with the tea. Her accent is noticeably more American than it had been, but she hasn’t, as far as he knows, been to England in 20 years. But she’s quickly reacclimating. He already hears the British pronunciation creeping back into her speech. 

She’s making a special effort to avoid meeting his gaze for the moment. She’s nervous. He knows that something is wrong, or she would not be here. He also knows that she’s not ready to talk about it. She’ll want to wait for Mycroft and avoid telling her story twice. Now, she’ll want to reminisce and laugh. The flat could do with a bit of laughter after a difficult few days, so he’ll indulge her. 

John returned to the lounge with the tea tray, passing identical cups of tea to both Sherlock and his guest, before taking a seat at the table and taking a sip from his own. 

“Katherine, is it? You said you were friends with Sherlock at school. But you’re American?”

She smiled. “Guilty as charged. I had hoped my accent would come back a little more quickly, but I guess 20 years is too long to have stayed away”

“20 Years? Have you kept in touch?” he asked, looking at Sherlock. 

“Unfortunately, no. That’s my fault. I’m no good at that sort of thing.” 

John rolls his eyes a bit at that one. “Something I know all too well.”

“I didn’t try very hard either. Email wasn’t as popular back then, texting was unheard of, and I hate talking on the phone. Then it just seemed as though too much time had passed.” Katherine sighed and smiled nostalgically. “But I’ve missed the Holmes boys.”

“Boys? Both of them? You were friends with both Sherlock and Mycroft?”

Sherlock laughs at that. “Mycroft doesn’t have friends, John. I’ve only had a few. But Katherine made an impression on us both.”

“You mean that I wouldn’t leave either of you alone, so you both eventually gave up and tolerated me.”

“It was such a hardship.” Sherlock responds with a smile. 

“I know. To have an adoring teenage girl completely in awe of your intellectual prowess and worshipping the very ground you both walked on had to have been so trying. How ever did you cope?”

“It helped that you were willing to aid me in my efforts to terrorize my brother. You were always the willing accomplice.”

“Terrorize Mycroft? Well, you’re right in my book.” John is enjoying the mischievous gleam in Sherlock’s eyes as he reminisces. 

“John, we didn’t just terrorize his brother. We also exasperated our teachers and drove our mothers to distraction. Mycroft was the only real challenge. At least half the time he figured out our plots before we had a chance to put them in action.” 

“He was something of a spoilsport.” Sherlock stood up and headed back to his bedroom, where they could hear him opening drawers, searching for something. 

“You were in school together, then?” John asks, trying to cover for the abrupt departure of his flatmate. 

“Yes. My mother and I moved to England to live with my grandparents when I was 12. They were not well, and she wanted to be close so she could take care of them. We lived near the Holmes family, and I was in school with Sherlock. Mycroft would make an appearance at the holidays and in the summer. None of us could really tolerate any of our neighbors or classmates, so, more often than not, we ended up together. And that’s how it was for four years. Then, my grandparents died, and my mother accepted a new job in the states, and we moved back. I haven’t seen or heard from either of them since that summer.”

“I can understand how neither of them got on with anyone else, but, and I mean this in the kindest way imaginable, you seem fairly normal.” Johns smiles at her over his mug. 

“I seem that way now.” Katherine takes a sip of her tea. “You know, I hated drinking tea when I first moved here. I didn’t like the way my mother or my grandparents took it. I accidentally grabbed Sherlock’s tea when we were working on homework at his house one afternoon, and that was it. Perfect. “

“I wondered how he knew how you took your tea. He would delete that bit of information for most people, especially ones that had been out of the picture for so long.”

“Oh, is he still deleting useless information?” She heard Sherlock coming back up the hall, having found what he was looking for. 

“You were not useless then, and I am quite sure that you are not useless now.” He came up behind the armchair and leaned over her shoulder to show her the few photographs he found in his room. 

“Wow. I’m so thin there! I don’t remember being that thin - ever! And look at your hair. So short. So tidy.” At this, John jumps up and rushes over to look at something he never thought he’d see - pictures of Sherlock as a teenager. 

“Mother was quite insistent that it be kept that way. She is quite disapproving of the current length.” 

John looks back and forth between the picture and the man standing before him. “The longer length suits you. You look resentful in the photo.” 

Sherlock meets his gaze. “I was. And not just about the hair.”

Katherine laughs. “On that particular day, I think you were upset because you found out that Mycroft was coming home for the weekend, and your mother planned to make both of you spend your Saturday at your grandmother’s. You had planned to spend the weekend on some experiment.”

“You’re right.” He walked over to the window, looked down, and made his way to the stairs, calling behind him, “I had intended to study the effects of various cleaning solutions on mummy’s rose bushes.“

Katherine laughed, handing the photos over to John for a closer look. “He eventually did do that. Fortunately, he stayed away from her prize rose bushes, a chose to experiment on a few in an out of the way corner of the garden. It took her forever to notice, and she never did, as far as I know, figure out the exact cause of death.” 

She turns away as she hears Sherlock come back up the stairs, followed by another visitor. Sherlock looks at John and shakes his head, quieting the comment that had been on his flatmate’s lips. Mycroft hovers in the doorway, looking at back of Katherine’s head. He starts to speak, but can’t seem to decide on an appropriate greeting. John looks from Mycroft to Katherine and back again, trying to get a handle on the situation. Mycroft appears almost nervous. 

Katherine, without shifting her gaze from the fire, speaks first. “I’m not 16 anymore.”

“And that is very good news.” A small smile finds its way to his lips. 

Katherine stands up, turns around, and walks over to Mycroft. She looks up at him for just a moment before she throws her arms around him and begins to cry. Mycroft hesitates just a moment before he raises his arms and returns her embrace. With that, her crying becomes full out sobbing. He tightens his embrace, and he lets her cry.


	2. Paging Dr. Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John does what he is best at and saves a life. Mycroft and Sherlock step aside to let him work.

Chapter 2

John is staring at the scene before him, mouth dropped open in surprise. Sherlock passes behind him, and reaches out to take his hand, pulling him through the kitchen and down the hall without a word. They end up in Sherlock’s room and push the door closed silently. 

“We should give them some privacy, yes?”

“Yes. I think so.” John is baffled by what he has seen so far. He looks at Sherlock and waits for an explanation. “That is not a site I ever expected to see.”

“She always had a way of getting past Mycroft’s defenses. She’s one of the few that ever could.” Sherlock goes to the the window. John can tell that he’s sorting through the available information, trying to decide where to begin. 

“Katherine’s father died when she was 11. Her mother had trouble coping, which was the real reason they came to England. She was smart, not like me, but not like the others either. She was also incredibly perceptive. She had a way with words, both their usage and her ability to understand the hidden meanings in those used by others. I would not be at all surprised to find that she’d ended up a linguist. She’d be quite skilled at that. She could always see right through what everyone said, and the other children didn’t like being read that way, any more than they liked my observations and deductions. It made sense that the two children that no one else wanted to be friends with would end up as such.” He paused, but didn’t yet turn away from the window. John could tell that Sherlock was still busy deducing his friend’s sudden arrival after such a long absence. 

“It’s a shame that she was away for so long. I wonder what has brought her back to England.” 

At this, Sherlock turned and looked at John. 

“I don’t know, and I don’t like not knowing.” John could see Sherlock’s mind working. “She’s in trouble. She’s heartbroken, too.” 

“She looked sad, when she arrived. Nervous. I wonder if she’s been ill. She’s got that look about her,” John offered. 

Sherlock’s eyes widen with the sudden realization. “She has been ill. She still is, and she’s trying desperately to hide it from us for a long as possible.”

There is a muffled thump in the lounge, followed an instant later by Mycroft yelling “John!”

John rushes from the room, while Sherlock dashes upstairs to John’s room to fetch the doctor’s bag. John finds Mycroft walking over to the sofa, carrying Katherine in his arms. John goes around to the other side of the coffee table, taking in everything he can about his patient even before Mycroft has a chance to lay her on the cushions. He can tell that her pulse is irregular. She’s dehydrated and most likely exhausted. Her make-up and the dim lighting had hidden the shadows under her eyes, now clearly visible in the sunlight. 

Mycroft steps away from the form on the sofa, giving John the room that he needs to work. John starts by opening her coat, realizing right away that she’s been putting up a brave front. He can see the bruises on her shoulder, and he knows that they came from a seat belt. “She’s been in a car accident. A bad one by the look of it.”

Sherlock has come into the room, putting John’s bag on the coffee table, and he kneels down nearby, ready to assist his flatmate as needed. Mycroft is doing what he does best, texting away on his phone, making things happen, resources available in the way that only he can. “Just tell me what you need, John.”

“A proper exam room and x-rays, for a start.”John is working on opening her cardigan and the blouse below, when he hears a sharp intake of breath. Katherine tries to sit up. 

“No hospitals, please. He’ll find me.”

John looks over his shoulder at the brothers, uncertainty on his face. 

“Sherlock, can you help me with her coat and take her pressure?” His flatmate has already slid the cuff up Katherine's arm. 

“Whatever you need, John” Mycroft’s fingers move over the keys, canceling his earlier call for an ambulance and poised to start issuing orders. 

John returns to the exam, gently probing the bruise, and tracing it down her chest. He began to notice the swell of her abdomen, and his exam becomes a bit more hurried. She gasps at his touch. Before Sherlock has a chance to finish his reading, John has swept the woman up into his arms and is carrying her down the hall to Sherlock’s bed. 

“I need room.” He starts listing the items he will need, barking orders at Mycroft, who does his best to comply. Sherlock is close on his heels, helping to finally free her completely of the coat, and without John having to ask, he continues undressing his visitor. 

John continues his exam, wondering how she had managed to stay upright, let alone drink tea and chat with old friends. The bruises are extensive, and she no doubt has a broken rib or two. But that isn’t what concerns him. She has very, very recently given birth, and it looks to have been a particularly traumatic delivery.

“Katherine, how long ago did you give birth? Can you tell me where the baby is? Katherine?” She sobs, trying to catch her breath. 

“I was pregnant. I knew I was. When I woke up, they told me I had been in an accident, that I was confused. There had never been a baby. But I KNEW there was. I KNEW IT.” A wave of pain causes her to yell out, and John starts barking orders. 

“Get Mrs. Hudson in here to help me. Call Molly. I need another set of trained hands.” He turns to his patient, noting that the spotting he noticed initially has turned to steady stream of blood. “Towels, Sherlock. Gauze. Have to stop the bleeding before it gets out of control.” 

Mycroft walks into inform him that the requested items, including a nurse that can be trusted are en route. He steps right back out to grab the towels, while Sherlock tells him where to find the gauze. John is focused entirely on his patient. 

“Katherine, I need you to lie still and try to stay calm. Sherlock, pressure. Katherine, how far along were you?”

“Just at 8 months. It’s too soon. Too soon.”

He can see that the hasty sutures have torn, and it looks as though the child was taken by force. The car accident likely initiated labor, and instead of trying to delay it, they forced it. No doubt she was drugged. 

Mycroft returns with towels, and gauze, followed closely by Mrs. Hudson. 

“Oh, dear.” 

She moves over to the far side of the bed, ready to do whatever is asked of her. John can hear Mycroft hurrying down the stairs to retrieve supplies as soon as they arrive. He’s doing what he can to stop the bleeding, while listening to Sherlock’s updates on her blood pressure. He wishes he had stronger drugs in the bag, but there is normally no call for that. He sighs with relief when he hears Mycroft running back up the stairs. He rushes into the room, followed by Anthea, bags of emergency supplies in her hands. 

“The emergency supplies from the office. The rest of what you requested should be here shortly.”

John focuses on the task at hand, listening to Mrs. Hudson speak soothingly to Katherine, trying to keep her awake and alert. When Molly arrives a few minutes later, she draws blood and takes the other specimens John has collected out to the lab. Mycroft leads a nurse into the room. She takes Sherlock’s place at the bedside, while Sherlock gathers up Katherine’s clothes and heads out of the room. Without a word, Mycroft follows him to the lounge. They’ll leave John to his work, saving Katherine’s life. They’ll set to work on saving her child.


	3. Retracing Her Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes Brothers work to retrace the path that brought Katherine to Baker Street. John gives them an update on her condition and offers his own insights.

Chapter 3 

Little more than an hour later, Sherlock’s room is transformed into a fairly well-appointed hospital ward. John has everything he could possibly need at his disposal, other than an operating suite , and he’s sure that one could be arranged if he asked. In fact, he will ask that one be placed on standby. He’s done what he can for her, and Katherine is stable and resting.

He goes to wash up and change, leaving her under the care of the highly competent nurse that Mycroft has supplied. Mrs. Hudson has found her way into the kitchen, and she’s busy making tea and sandwiches for everyone. Eating is the last thing that any of them would think about, but she knows that they’ll need fuel to keep them going. There is no rest in sight. 

Sherlock and Mycroft are in the lounge, a map of London tacked to the wall. The desk has been cleared of its standard clutter and in now covered in what John can only assume are the contents of Katherine’s pockets. The clothes that she had been wearing are draped carefully over the chairs, and the brothers are currently examining her coat. He knows they are trying to track the route that she took to find them. 

John enters the room and clears his throat. The brothers stop in their examination of the coat’s collar, and turn to John for an update. 

“She’s stable for now, but I’m not sure if she’ll stay that way. She’s lost a lot of blood over the course of the last few days. First, there was an accident. She has bruising from the seat belt, three broken ribs, and several cuts along the right side of her torso and on the inside of her right arm.”

Sherlock raises his arm to shield his face as he imagines she did, running through every possible scenario John continues cataloging her injuries. 

“The real problem, however, is the damage that was done during the delivery. If I had to guess what happened, I’d say that the trauma of the accident initiated labor and they, whoever they are, took advantage of that fact to all but rip the child from her womb. I’m surprised she didn’t bleed out on the spot. “

“How likely is that the child survived the delivery?” Mycroft’s tone is all business, but John can see the worry in his eyes. 

“It’s hard to say. Eight months is early, but not so early that there are any major concerns. It will depend on whether or not the child was injured during the accident or the delivery. The are no obvious signs that it was, but I have no way of knowing. I’d say that odds are good that it’s still alive. But where is it?” John tries hard to keep the desperation from his voice, but he can’t escape the memory of the case they had just finished. His stomach turns at the thought of another dead child, this one gone before it had even had a chance to live. 

“How old are her injuries?” 

“I’d say the accident was no more than 48 hours ago, and the birth within a few hours of that.” 

The brothers turn to look at the map, both working to trace Katherine’s route from Baker Street back to her origin. 

“She’s been here for nearly 3 hours. She arrived by taxi just after dark. She was picked up at Waterloo station, suggesting she arrived by train, so she wasn’t in London when this happened.”

Mycroft nods, agreeing with his brother’s assessment. “It would have been at least 20 minutes by taxi, so she arrived at the station anywhere from 5 to 15 minutes before that. Trains arrived from Cardiff, Northampton, and Folkestone within that time frame. We can eliminate Cardiff. It’s been raining steadily there for days. Northampton is most likely.”

John’s puzzled by this. “Why, exactly? Couldn’t she have come into the country on the Eurostar, then made it on to London from there?”

“Immigration records for the last three months show that Katherine Moffat arrived in Heathrow nearly 3 weeks ago. We can’t be sure that it was her, but Moffat was her mother’s maiden name. That Katherine Moffat then rented a car. We’re watching police reports, but so far the car has not been reported abandoned or involved in an accident.” Mycroft paused, pulling his phone from his pocket and stepping out on the landing. 

John noticed Sherlock had paused in his examination of the coat. He looked at John, wondering what insight he could offer, knowing that it was precisely at moments like this one that John’s medical knowledge proved most useful. 

“You think that she flew from America into London 3 weeks ago, when she was more than 7 months pregnant? I wouldn’t recommend such a long journey that far along in the pregnancy. Most airlines wouldn’t have been comfortable with it either, though I supposed its possible. Do we even know for sure that she came straight from America? Or even what her name is now?” 

Sherlock considers John’s insight. “I don’t know. She wouldn’t have taken the risk to travel such a great distance being that far along unless it were necessary. She’s always been a terribly practical person.” 

Mycroft re-enters the room, his mouth tight and his voice tense. “Katherine Moffat has been hidden away in a flat in Oxford, working on finishing a draft of a novel that is due to the publishers in two weeks time. I’m afraid we must begin again.”

“Have your agents check Eurostar for the last week, and take the search for airport arrivals back further, at least 7 months. We can’t assume that she came from America, and we can’t assume that it was recent. John’s right. She wouldn’t have flown that far this late in her pregnancy. We have to assume she came into the country earlier or that she came in some other way.” 

Mycroft nods and looks down at his phone. Having a new avenue of inquiry to pursue has caused some of the tension to leave his shoulders. Sherlock places the coat carefully on the sofa, and turns to look back over the contents of Katherine’s pockets, strewn on the desk. John goes over to stand at his side, looking over the items for the first time. He sees the taxi receipt, a few crumpled notes, a few packets of an over-the-counter pain reliever, a sanitary napkin, and a packet of crisps. There was a bit of an orange peel, too. 

“There was a bit of orange pith under her nails, too. Probably breakfast” He picks up the packet of pain relievers. “This wouldn’t have done much to ease her pain. I’m truly amazed that she managed to sit here and have a normal conversation with us for as long as she did. It had to have been the adrenaline that carried her that long.” 

“When do you think we’ll be able to speak with her? The best we can do now is guess. We need more data.” Sherlock sinks down in his desk chair, and starts typing away on the laptop, searching for more information to aid him in his deductions. 

John considers this for a moment. “She’s going to need a few hours rest to clear her head. I’ll need the lab results back from Molly before I can say too much more. But she should be fine.”

Mycroft looks up from his phone. “You’re sure?” 

“Physically? Yes. Fairly sure. But it will take time. Emotionally? I have no idea. We have to find the child.” He sinks down in his chair, leaning back letting himself relax for the first time in hours. Days, really, if he were to be honest about it. “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a bit. Clear my head. I won’t be of any use to anyone if I don’t.”

Sherlock pauses his search for a moment, and looks at John with both gratitude and concern on his face. “You should rest. You’ve more than done your part. Let us work now. I’ll be sure to wake you if you’re needed.”

Mycroft comes over behind the chair and places his hand on John’s shoulder. “Thank you, John. For everything.” 

John mumbles something along the lines of “it was no problem” and dozes off in his chair. Mycroft continues down the hall to check in on the patient.


	4. Mycroft the Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Katherine have a short chat when she wakes up to find him watching over her as she sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to go so long between updates, but the real world has been a bit demanding as of late. My apologies.

Chapter 4 

Katherine wakes slowly. She’s hears the sounds of the monitors first, and she tenses, afraid that they have taken her to a hospital. She tries to stay calm, easing her eyes open to take in the scene around her. She relaxes immediately when she sees the man in the chair next to the bed, reading a file from the stack on his lap. She says nothing, taking a moment to look him over, noticing all of the ways he has changed since she last saw him, twenty years before. 

His hair has thinned, and he is leaner than he used to be. His face has lost the roundness that it once had. He seems more serious than he once did. She can still make out the freckles across the bridge of his nose, though. And she bets that his rare smile would thrill her just the way it had before. 

“Hello, Mycroft. I was beginning to think that I would never wake up to find you beside me.” Her voice is little more than a whisper. 

Mycroft’s head snaps up, a look of relief filling his face. 

“If only it were under different circumstances.” 

He closes the folder in his hands, and sets the stack in the open briefcase on the floor. He scoots his chair closer, and takes her hand. He leans in so she won’t have to put too much effort into making herself heard above the beeps and hums of the various machines and monitors. He rubs his thumb across the back of her hand. 

“How are you feeling, Katherine?”

She swallows hard, trying to summon her voice. Again, it is little more than a whisper. “Like I was hit by a car and my insides ripped out.”

“From what Dr. Watson says, that doesn’t sound too far from the truth. He says that you need time to rest, but that you will, most likely, make a full recovery.” Mycroft takes raises his other hand to brush a curl back on her forehead. 

“And the baby?” Her eyes are wet, but she refuses to let another tear fall. She knows that Mycroft has never been comfortable with emotional outbursts. She has put him through enough already that evening.

He sighs and sits back in his chair. He looks less like the worried friend and more like the minor government official that he is. It is only the fact that he still holds her hand in his that betrays the more human side to Mycroft Holmes. 

“We are not yet sure what has become of the child. Sherlock and I have been working to retrace the path that led you to Baker Street. We know you arrived in a taxi. Before that you were on a train.”

Katherine shifts in the bed, trying to sit up. She looks at the glass of water sitting on the bedside table, and, without a word, Mycroft hands it to her. After taking several small sips, she hands him the glass and sits back against the pillows.

“Yes. I remember the train. But I don’t remember how I got there. Not really. I remember watching the sunrise from the train. An older woman sitting across from me thought that I looked weak, as though I had been ill, and she offered me an orange from her bag.”

“Do you remember where you were sitting in the train?”

“I was in a rear-facing seat on the left side of the car. I woke up leaning against the window. My face was cold. The woman was watching me, though she looked down at the magazine in her hands as soon as she realized I was awake. She gave me the orange about a half hour later, and she didn’t say anything else until we stopped in Waterloo. She told me that was my stop. I must have looked confused, because then she told me to check my pockets when I was in the station. Then she got up and walked away.”

Mycroft furrows his brow, listening intently. “What did you find in your pockets?” 

“I found a card with Sherlock’s name on it and this address. There was some money, too. So I got in a cab and came here.” 

“A card with Sherlock’s name? What did you do with it? We didn’t find that in your pockets.”

“No. I threw it away. As soon as I saw it, I knew I would be safe. I knew you both would help me. I also knew that it could connect me to you, and I didn’t want to give them, whoever they are, a trail to follow. So I tore it up and threw it in a bin.”

“And you came straight here. Do you remember anything else?”

“I’m trying. But….all I remember are lights and voices. I’m so tired, Mycroft. I want to remember, but I can’t. Not now.” Katherine slowly slides back down in the bed, her head on the pillow. 

Mycroft helps her to readjust the covers, and he smoothes the hair back from her face. He smiles down at her. 

“You remembered a lot, and it will be very helpful. Do you need anything? More water?” 

“No, Mycroft. I’m okay.” She’s asleep again almost before the word leaves her mouth. 

Mycroft lets go of her hand and leaves the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him. He nods at the nurse as he walks through the kitchen, and she quickly returns to her post at Katherine’s bedside. He enters the lounge. 

John is on his mobile, listening intently to the voice on the other end while reading over reports on his laptop. Sherlock looks up from his laptop when he notices his older brother enter the room.

“She came in from Folkestone.”

“Yes. It would appear that the doctor was correct. I did not learn much more than that, I’m afraid. She doesn’t remember getting on the train. And she’s in no shape to answer any more questions right now.”

John finishes his call. “After seeing that toxicology report, I’m surprised she was able to remember anything at all about the last week.”

Sherlock can see the worry on his flatmate’s face. He wants to reassure him somehow. “Katherine has always had a way of surprising people. No doubt she’ll have a few more for us before it’s all over.” 

Mycroft looks up from the text he was typing out. “John, Katherine is a fighter. As are you. You’re well-suited to the challenge of caring for her. I have the utmost confidence in your abilities.”

John is stunned by Mycroft’s vote of confidence, but he does his best not to let it show. Instead, he pushes back his chair, stands, and walks back to where his patient is resting in the other room.


	5. Sentiment? Sentiment.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock learns that he's not entirely out of his element when it comes to sentiment.

The three men work late into the evening. There isn’t a lot of conversation, each one intent on his own laptop. One will occasionally stop to share a bit of information with the others or to ask for an opinion. Mycroft slips away at some point to go home, sleep for a few hours, change, and make sure the country has ceased to exist in his absence. John goes up to his room for a few hours sleep after leaving instructions with the nurse to wake him immediately if there is any change in his patient's condition. 

Sherlock, without John having to ask, makes himself comfortable on the couch. He spends some time in his mind palace, but, eventually, he too lets sleep take him. When he wakes up a few hours later, he finds Katherine hobbling into the lounge, propped up on the IV pole and arguing with the nurse that is trying in vain to make her return to her bed. Katherine finds her way to John's chair and sits down gingerly. Sherlock nods at the nurse, subtly gesturing at the stairs leading to John's room. 

"It's quite useless to argue with Katherine. She can find the holes in any argument you provide and having you seeing her way with a few well-chosen words." He gestures to the stairs again. The nurse finally takes the hint and heads up the stairs to wake Dr. Watson. 

"She breathes too loudly. I couldn't sleep anymore." She sinks back in the chair, trying to get comfortable. "I don't suppose you have something I could prop my feet on, do you?"

Sherlock rises from the couch and retrieves John's step stool from the kitchen, placing it at Katherine’s feet and covering it with a cushion from the sofa. He gently lifts her feet, then retrieves the afghan from the back of his chair and covers her with it. 

“A glass of water?”

“Tea, perhaps?” 

“We’ll have to see what John has to say about that. He should be down shortly.” Sherlock can already hear his flatmate moving around upstairs, and knows that John will be getting a detailed update from the nurse before heading down to check on her for himself. 

“I am sure that he will. Where is Mycroft? Will he be back soon?” She is sitting with her eyes closed, looking as though the trip from his room to the lounge drained her of what little energy she had. 

“He will be here as soon as he can. He had a few things to attend to.” Sherlock sits down on the edge of his chair, looking across at his friend and thinking back to the last time they saw each other. 

“I was sad to see you go, Katherine. But it was not for the reason you may have thought. You were one of the few friends I have ever made. You were, and no doubt still are, my equal. But I wasn’t in love with you. You didn’t break my heart. Not that way.” 

Katherine opens her eyes, and sad smile spreads across her face.

“Oh, I know I didn’t. And you didn’t break mine. We were partners in crime, so to speak. But that was all.”

Sherlock is a bit surprised by her response, but also relieved. He sighs and sits back. 

“I am glad to hear that. I have never understood sentimental responses, and I wasn’t used to you having them. When I saw you crying that evening as you walked through the gate, I was confused. It has troubled me from time to time over the years.” 

“Regret is a sentimental response, Sherlock, though not as obvious as my tears.” Katherine closes her eyes again, laying her head back against the chair. 

“I suppose you’re right.” Sherlock looks to the doorway, where John is standing, a questioning look on his face. Sherlock shakes his head, and John makes his way down the hall to the bathroom, leaving the two friends to continue their conversation. “Why were you crying? I had never seen you do that before.”

“I was upset. I was leaving behind my family, two of the only friends that I had ever had, a school that I loved. I was afraid. I was sad. It got to me. I was a teenage girl. The hormones were bound to rear their head at some point. Be glad you weren’t there for the rest of my teens, or during the early months of this pregnancy. I’ve been unbearable.”

“No. That’s not it. Not entirely. You looked hurt. Betrayed. You stood at the gate and looked back at our house, with your fingers on your lips, one arm wrapped around your waist, as if you were trying to hold yourself together. Mummy saw you, too. She said you looked like your heart had been broken. She is much better at understanding that sort of thing than I am, so I trusted her assessment. I was afraid that I had been the cause. I am glad that I was not. But who was? What happened?” 

“I was 16, and I thought that was old enough. I was wrong.” 

Sherlock can see that she will not be going any further with her explanation. He looks up at John entering the room, medical kit in hand, ready to check on his patient. He gets up from his chair, and goes over to where his violin rests in its case. As John sits with Katherine, examining her and asking the questions that he could not the night before, Sherlock softly plays a song that he remembers as one of her favorites. He hopes that it will make up for his probing questions. He shouldn’t have pressed the issue, but he has a tendency to get carried away when presented with a mystery. He clears his mind of all but the music and Katherine’s current situation. 

He is still playing when Mycroft arrives an hour later. Katherine is still in the chair, and John is fussing in the kitchen, putting together a light breakfast for his patient. Mrs. Hudson has been up to see if they need anything from the shops, and John’s sent her off with a list. It is at the site of his older brother in the doorway that Katherine’s explanation for her tears finally makes sense. 

“I didn’t break her heart, Mycroft. You did. Because she was only 16. She was too young.”

The sad smile returns to Katherine’s face. “I knew you’d get it, Sherlock.”

Mycroft pulls a chair over from the desk, and takes his place at Katherine’s side. He takes her hand, as he did the night before. 

“There are few things that I regret more than causing you that pain. That is why I am going to do everything I can to make up for it now. But to do that, we need more information.”

She sits up in the chair, allowing Mycroft to put a cushion behind her back. She takes the toast that offers her, eats a few bites, and takes a long drink from the glass of water he has left on the side table. She sighs. 

“Sit down, all of you. I will tell you what I know.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Two years ago, I received a Fullbright grant to study in Barcelona. One afternoon, when I had only been there for a couple of weeks, I decided to tag along with a group of English-speaking tourists that were visiting La Sagrada Familia. I had taken a similar tour, in Catalan, several years before, and I was interested in how the information presented varied from language to language.” 

John couldn’t help the whispered “Amazing” that escaped his lips. Sherlock gives him a brief, pleased smile. 

“As Sherlock no doubt mentioned to you, John, I was always good with words. I did, in fact, become a linguist. I have a particular weakness for the Romance languages. I always have.” She pauses to smile shyly at Mycroft. “I had an excellent Latin tutor. That’s what got me started.”

He returns her smile and squeezes her hand. “Please continue. Time is of the essence.”

“Right. I wasn’t the only tag-along in the group. There was a Colombian man there, too. His name was Ricardo. We were both keeping to the back of the group, trying not to stand out too much. We were both missing the little pins that marked us as paying customers and hoping it would go unnoticed. It didn’t. We were chased away by a little old lady, making a big deal of the fact that we were ruining experience for all the paying customers. We ended up in a cafe, laughed over coffee and dessert, exchanged cell numbers, and said goodnight. In a few months, we were married, and we had both decided to stay in Barcelona for a while.”

“Were you happy there, with him?” Mycroft asks, just as Sherlock requests more information about Ricardo. She smiles sadly, remembering what it had been like to be questioned by the two of them simultaneously, struggling to keep up with who had asked what and when. 

“Ricardo was an art historian, with a background in architecture. He was in Barcelona working on a book about Gaudi and his inspirations. He was concentrating on the story of the man than of his work, and he often spent his days wandering the city, searching for new bits of information or trying to imagine how it was back then. We were very happy together, especially when we found out I was pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but it was an especially delightful surprise.” She stops. The expression that crosses her face is a mixture of sadness and confusion. She takes a deep breath before continuing. 

“I encouraged him to contact his family, to tell them the good news. I have no one left, and the idea that our child would have family and not know them bothered me. I had even been contemplating getting in touch with the two of you, asking you to represent his or her English heritage.” Mycroft smiles at this, and John chuckles to himself, imagining the two men he had come to know so well as uncles. 

“At first, he was adamant that he wanted nothing to do with them. But, as the pregnancy progressed, he began to talk about home and all the wonderful and beautiful things about Colombia that he hoped to one day show to his child. One afternoon, he said he was going for a walk. He was gone for hours, and when he returned, he was...resigned. He said he had called his brother, they had a falling out, and he was prepared to do whatever was necessary. He wouldn’t explain beyond that. I didn’t know what his goal was. I wasn’t feeling well, so I went to bed early. He never came to bed that night. He woke me up before dawn to say goodbye. He said that he was going to try to change his brother’s mind. There was a folder on the table with maps, timetables, reservation information. He told me to go back to sleep for a few hours, that a car would be there to pick me up at 10. My bags were packed. I just needed to follow the schedule.”

Sherlock goes to look out the window at Baker Street below. He asks, his tone gentle in a way that it rarely is, “Did you question him? Ask for an explanation? It’s not like you to just do what you’re told.” 

Mycroft turns to face Katherine, taking her other hand so that he now holds them both tightly in his own. He holds her gaze, and answers Sherlock’s question for her. “She trusted him to make the right decision. She trusted that he wouldn’t take such drastic measures without a good reason.”

“I still trust him. I haven’t seen him in over a month. I’ve had no contact. I’ve followed the schedule he left for me, slowly making way from Barcelona to England. I’ve hoped for news at every stop, but there’s been nothing. I think there’s been nothing. I don’t remember the last few days very well.” She turns away from Mycroft, sliding her hands from his grasp, and using them to pull the afghan in her lap more tightly around her. 

John gets up and heads to the kitchen, putting the kettle on. “I’m not surprised you’re having trouble remembering things, what with the trauma you experienced.” 

Mycroft sits back in his chair. “Katherine’s always had a great mind for detail, John. It will all come back to her soon, I’m sure.” 

“I’m sure you’re right, brother dear.” Sherlock places a hand gently on Mycroft’s shoulder, subtly nodding at the door. Mycroft stands, pulling his phone from his pocket. 

“Katherine, Sherlock and I are going to leave you in the capable hands of Dr. Watson for short while. We’re going to the office for a bit, pull a few strings, as it were. We will see if we can’t find out what happened to your husband.” 

John met Sherlock’s gaze as he came back in the room, carrying the tea. “Right. We’ll just have a cuppa, and then I’ll have to insist that you go back to bed, Katherine. You need your rest.”

She does not shift her gaze from the fire. “Yes. I think you’re right. Thank you.” 

Sherlock wraps his scarf around his neck, and the two brothers make their way down the stairs, to Baker Street.


	7. Chapter 7

Before they had settled into the back of the car waiting for them, the Holmes brothers had a positive ID on Katherine’s husband and were able to confirm that he had arrived in Colombia nearly a month before. Armed with that information, Mycroft’s team is hard at work tracing both his steps and those of Caterina Rojas, the name that appears on their marriage license. 

Sherlock notes the slightly surprised tone to Mycroft’s voice when he relays that detail and is quick to respond, “Really, Mycroft. Given her attention to detail, you can’t be surprised that she would adopt the Catalan version of her name while engaging in a an in-depth study of the language and its evolution.”

“That does not surprise me, brother dear. I am surprised, however, that she would choose to give up her last name. I remember a particularly lively debate on that matter one summer afternoon in mummy’s rose garden. She deemed it an antiquated custom, and insisted that accepting her husband’s name would be tantamount to giving him ownership of her body and mind. She was not willing to give that up.”

“You, no doubt, argued in favor of tradition,” Sherlock replies, as he finishes off a series of text activating his homeless network, looking for a lead on the woman who looked after Katherine on the train. 

“Naturally.” 

They arrive at Mycroft’s office to find Anthea waiting for them with a rough timeline of the last month, including surveillance images of Katherine’s imprecise route to England. She had entered the country via Eurostar, as John had suggested, and she had done so under the Catalan version of her name. 

“It seems that she had a Spanish passport issued just before she began traveling, which is odd since neither she nor Ricardo were Spanish citizens. She retained her British citizenship. His passport, on the other hand, was issued by the Colombian government to a Ricardo Rojas de Restrepo. Other than the passport, however, he does not appear to exist.” Mycroft looks down at her, his left eyebrow slightly raised, and she stands to the side, already with phone in hand, texting questions to her counterpart in the Colombian government. 

“Who exactly did she marry, brother? Did she know nothing about him?” Sherlock, as ever, finds himself confused by matters of the heart. 

“I’m sure she thought she knew enough. If she thought he was hiding something, then she must have assumed he had a good reason. And for his sake, he better hope that’s the case.” Mycroft sits at this desk and begins typing, putting his vast network of resources to work. 

“How’s your Spanish these days?” says Sherlock, earning a brief, though intense, look of disgust.

He looks over Mycroft’s shoulder, watching as his elder brother fabricates a story about a baby being snatched from a small birthing center near Ashford. The center does not exist, and the baby had not been born there, but Eurostar does stop in Ashford, and it is reasonable to assume that is where Katherine had gotten off the train. It would be very difficult, and impractical, to get an undocumented newborn out of the country, so it is likely that it would the child would be found not far from there. The brothers also agreed that whoever was responsible for this was likely still looking for Katherine. 

Soon, all elements of the cover story have been put in place and released to the media. Sherlock leaves Mycroft to see what sort of information he can pick up from the homeless network, and the elder Holmes allows himself a moment to deal with the troublesome emotions that he is so practiced at keeping in check. While he holds his head in his hands, elbows propped on his desk, he allows himself to imagine a different scenario for that summer evening so long ago, one that would have lead him down a different path. He could have been kinder in his refusal, more accepting of her suggestion that they keep in touch. He could have waited a few more years, encouraged her to return to England to attend university. 

Mycroft could have done a lot of things differently, but he did not allow himself to feel regret. He had done the right thing, and he would not hesitate to do it again, though he would endeavor to be less abrasive in his approach. 

He is just sitting back in his chair, straightening his tie when Anthea returns to his office, handing him a tablet with the dossier on Mateo Restrepo, alias Ricardo Rojas. His father’s family had owned a very successful coffee plantation near Quimbaya for four generations. Upon his father’s death, however, his older brother had taken over and slowly started converting his crop to something more profitable and less legal. Mateo did not want to be a part of his brother’s operation, so when he came to Europe to study in college, he found a way to stay. He assumed a new identity, a new background, and moved around through Spain, Portugal, Italy, France and England.

In the 13 years he had lived in Europe, Mateo had never stayed in one place longer than a year or two. His longest stay had been in Barcelona, with Katherine. He had even been investigating the purchase of a house there, with the baby on the way. It seems that he had hoped for the best, but that he’d always planned for the worst. On the afternoon that he’d gone to call his brother, surveillance cameras had picked him up entering four different branches of multinational banks. He’d made substantial withdrawals from accounts in four different names. He also retrieved several unknown items from a safe deposit box at a fifth bank, one that catered to a very select clientele who wished to protect their privacy. Mycroft had never heard of it, and he assumed that was not an accident. 

Anthea picks up where the dossier leaves off, “It appears that he had an exit strategy in place, both for his return to Colombia if it became necessary, and for his wife, should he feel her life were in danger.” She reaches over his shoulder to tap open a new file on the tablet and continues.

“Once we were able to accurately identify him, we were able to retrace his steps during his time in Europe. The path he set his wife on was the reverse of his own. In each town, she stayed with a close friend of his from when he had lived there. She had access to medical care, money, security. Whatever she needed. Each host made the arrangements for the next stop on the journey. He had expected her to stay in Brussels for the rest of her pregnancy, but she said she would feel more comfortable in England. According to her host, a Virginie Renier, Catherine slipped away four days ago, when she said she was going to take a nap after lunch. She left a note thanking her for her kindness, but said she’d spent enough time with strangers. She wanted something familiar. We are unable to verify anything after that.”

“Who spoke with Ms. Renier?” Mycroft asks. 

“I handled that call personally.”

“And who were you?”

“Agatha Cullen, with Eurostar. I explained that Mrs. Rojas had left her wallet on the train and we were trying to get it back to her. We hoped that Ms. Renier would have contact information for her in England.”

“Was she suspicious at all?”

“I don’t think so. She was hesitant to speak with me until I identified myself. I made an effort to sound especially friendly and apologetic. That seemed to calm her.”

“Thank you, Anthea.” She leaves the room, fingers already flying over the keyboard on her phone. 

Mycroft continues reading over the information that Anthea has provided, mentally retracing Catherine’s journey over the last few weeks. He wonders where her phone and laptop have disappeared to in all the confusion. He knows that she will not want to be away from her work for too long. It also occurs to him that the fact that the she would not have left herself unconnected may have been precisely what led her attackers to her.


End file.
